


This World of Trials

by BountyHuntress16



Series: Daughter of Gelmorra [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Duskwight Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Elezen Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Everybody Lives, Everyone is Queer, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Heavensward Spoilers, Hint of Estinien/Warrior of Light, Impalement, Implied Aymeric/Estinien, Non-Explicit Sex, Patch 3.0: Heavensward Spoilers, Polyamorous Character, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, The Echo (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BountyHuntress16/pseuds/BountyHuntress16
Summary: It has never worked before like this. Not with Moenbryda. Not the night she lost everyone but Alphinaud and Tataru. She does not pretend to understand this bargain, the machinations of a God. That her bond with the Mother Crystal has been dimmed by Midgardsormr and yet: she should have died against Ravana. But found herself pulled back from the edge again.She does not pretend to understand this.-Nerys will save Haurchefant, as many times as it takes, no matter the cost.Sequel to Ardent, works as stand-alone piece.
Relationships: Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Series: Daughter of Gelmorra [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956604
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	This World of Trials

**Author's Note:**

> Tags are a touch spoilery but I want you all to be warned of what lies ahead. I promise it will all be okay,
> 
> As noted in summary: this is a sequel to "Ardent" but also works as a stand-alone piece.

Light leaves his eyes. 

He is too still. Blue coloring edges up his chin and face. It shouldn’t be there. Blue is for his gaze, not his skin. Not her knight. Her sweet knight. Her-

The smile he begged for slips away. She clutches at his mail, willing his heart to start again beneath her slippery, red fingers. Anguished howling and pleading spill from her lips as she presses down, desperate and scared and her vision tunneling to that awful blue that cannot mean what it must mean. It cannot.

Nerys is no healer. Several Conjurer’s Guild members taught her, but little of it took. Manipulating wind had been her only triumph and that cannot help him now. Nothing she does can. These stained hands are only good for killing. For not moving fast enough. For not pushing him out of the way. 

She tries anyway, pulling at any shred of magic that might help. She just has to-if she can just-

A hand wraps around her wrist. She lifts her blurry gaze to Estinien, who shakes his head. Her one-time rival, now friend. He wants her to give up. He wants her to stop. He-

"No," she sobs. "No! Please...don't take him from me too."

 _You've taken everything else._ She says to no one in particular. But to one being especially. _What good is the Echo if it doesn’t save people like him?_

One of them says her name. It dissolves in the roaring in her ears, in the harsh cacophony of her sobs. Sapphire aether churns around her. The world churns about her.

* * *

She stands before Charibert, her eyes dry, her lance in her hands

Nerys jerks backward.

 _Is the Echo making me see this again?_ She shakes her head, trying to snap back to...to...no she doesn't want to go back there either. She just wants to go somewhere it doesn't hurt anymore.

The great doors swing open and she snaps to attention. Zephirin appears, and calls his comrade back. Memory or no, a wordless cry of fury and pain bursts from her. She charges forward. The adventurers at her back call out. 

Charibert's eyes widen and he reaches for his staff. Nerys leaps.

This is what a dragoon does. They soar into danger to slay the monsters. She aims her lance, hefting it above her shoulder.

Charibert's charm hits her a second before the spear of pure energy drives through her heart.

* * *

She stands before Charibert. Gasping. No longer drowning in her own blood. Air rushes into her chest. Zephirin appears and she holds her ground. Fights the urge to rip his heart from his chest, the way he tore her heart from her. 

The cobalt of their uniforms hurts her eyes.

Hold.

_Hold._

**_Hold._ **

Soon as their backs turn she rushes them, avoiding Charibert's blow and the killing lance. They both charge and she leaps backwards, back to the Adventurers she gathered to assault the Vault with her. They are all bone-tired and depleted. She _must_ move quickly to end this.

Nerys wants him to suffer. She will settle for his head.

Zephirin pulls from a boundless well of energy, making up for his companion's fatigue. Her party is not ready for another overpowered knight and the healer falls, fainting at the feet of their bard.

"Nerys!"

The top of the stairs. Haurchefant rushes forward and unsheathes his blade. "Nerys, I'm here!"

Zephirin's cold smile is not warning enough. He twists around, flinging a lance of pure energy at Haurchefant. Her knight lifts his shield and she runs to him and Charibert knocks her back with a gale of wind and then she sees the sword pierce through the shield and the blood fly from his mouth and-

* * *

"Why did you join our guild?"

Her focus breaks. Chunks of earth plummet back to the ground with a series of _thuds_ , landing haphazardly about the crevices they made. They resemble puzzle pieces wedged in the wrong way, as if put there by an impatient child.

There is no reproach in E-Sumi-Yan's manner or tone. Some of the worry slides out of her shoulders. Pure curiosity shines on his youthful face. 

"...I want to help people," she says. When not using the stave, her posture reverts to holding it like a lance. Until she catches herself and adjusts her grip. "And sometimes when I am out in the field, I need a little help myself."

"Do you not help people already?" He crosses the clearing he brought her to. Gives her the nod to shape the spell again. He rests one hand on her stave to steady her work and it is one of the few things that tell his age. Networks of fine lines run over the flesh and pronounced knuckles.

Nerys cannot answer until the bits of earth fly from the ground and hit the practice target. If he attacked her while she focused, it would all crumble. She is not used to being so vulnerable.

"I do. But I can't fix a wound with a lance."

"No...but a lance could prevent a wound." He tilts his head to look up at her. "If you continue with us, I will support you and make you as excellent a Conjurer as any who walk our guild halls."

She voices the word he does not. "But…"

"But I see in you the potential to change the world with your lance," he says. "And were you to focus all your energies into one skill rather than split between two...there is no limit to what you may accomplish."

* * *

A lance cannot heal a wound.

She is useless every time Haurchefant dies before her.

* * *

Nerys stands before Charibert.

Her head aches, like it does after a vision from The Echo. Her body aches, the way it does when the same blessing pulls her from the brink of death. That has been the unspoken agreement. Should her party fall against a Primal, time resets itself. Hydaelen’s strength grows in them all.

It has never worked before like this. Not with Moenbryda. Not the night she lost everyone but Alphinaud and Tataru. She does not pretend to understand this bargain, the machinations of a God. That her bond with the Mother Crystal has been dimmed by Midgardsormr and yet: she should have died against Ravana. But found herself pulled back from the edge once more. 

She does not pretend to understand _this_.

Nerys trembles as the knights turn from her. The airship flies overhead and they follow to meet their master. 

"I'll take it from here," she tells the other Adventurers. "You know what you have to do?"

The healer nods, clutching her star globe. Nerys blinks away the image of her on the ground. The rest murmur their acquiescence. While she presses on, they will secure an escape route. As soon as they have Aymeric, they will need to rush him out of here.

Nerys runs faster than she ever has until her breath hurts in her chest and throat, the air scraping raw against her insides. Her heart is a bruising beat against her sternum. When Haurchefant and the others arrive, she touches his arm, anchoring him in place. He looks to her, eyes darting to the walkway. Waiting for her signal.

Aymeric sways as if the wind might knock him over. Estinien’s hand darts out to cup his elbow.

"Don't, don't follow," she says. The words cut her throat and the air between them. "Please believe me, it won’t stop him and you'll-"

Estinien growls his impatience. Aymeric barely stands because of these monsters. He fair reeks of blood, bruises blooming over bruises. If she could hate these men anymore…

It might match the anger and hatred that spurs Estinien towards Thordan. A dragoon soaring into danger to slay the monsters. Nerys cries aloud, rushing forward as well. Hoping to match him as she has always managed before, as comrades and as enemies.

The lance catches the base of her spine and then her lungs and then her gut and she is choking, drowning on the rush of blood. The anguished sound–is it her? Haurchefant?

 _Oh._ She realises as she falls. _It's Estinien._

* * *

"Please listen to me," Nerys pleads. "Whatever we do, he still flies away and one of us will die."

"Nerys?" Haurchefant touches her arm. 

"Please," she pleads again. Eyes stinging. Throat closing. She is shaking and she cannot stop. "You have to listen to me, I'll explain later. We need to turn and go."

Estinien doesn't listen. She saves him at the cost of her life again.

Nerys may never stop tasting copper.

* * *

Estinien listens. They let her usher them back and she can feel their hurt and confusion. It doesn't matter. They'll understand.

Nerys gets them to where she keeps reviving to face Charibert. It's going to be alright. She steps out under the bright sun-

"Nerys!" Haurchefant cries, shoving her aside and bringing up his shield. She watches it crack again. She watches him die again.

* * *

"What did you do?"

Estinien materializes in her space, lips pressed together in a grim line. She startles away. (He moves so _fast._ ) Lifts her chin (odd, after her time with the Scions, having to look up at people again). 

"Would you have rather made the killing blow?" She asks, voice harsh. _As if such things matter when a Bandersnatch rushes you._

They are allies now. Again? The short span between Estinien first inviting her to fight Nidhogg and their subsequent battle may not count as a partnership. They had seen something in one another, she knows that. More than a shared title and teacher.

But that day she fought to shield Alberic from him...it broke their fragile truce. However well they have cooperated thus far, it feels like a shadow Nerys cannot disperse.

"Peace," he says, lifting a hand. His tone is the same it always is, always an edge poised to cut. "You did something with the tip of your lance. I've not seen its like."

"...Ah." Nerys looks down at her weapon, contrite for all the assumptions running through her. She pushes down the instinct to fight. "It is something I have been developing. Walk with me, they're waiting."

"They are not and we can catch up."

He’s correct. Ahead, Ysayle and Alphinaud continue down the path, her silver head bent and his upturned in conversation. Unconcerned with the pair of dragoons, likely caught up in a discussion of arcana or history or perhaps...what it means to lead.

From the moment Alphinaud first saw Estinien, she knew the young man would idolize him. She had not expected that he would also hang on Lady Iceheart’s every word and pepper her with all sorts of questions. Or that Ysayle would gladly converse for hours.

She turns back to Estinien. “What it is...is that I tried my hand at conjury some time ago." 

"...That sounds like you."

Her eyebrows raise. "It does?"

"The boy boasts of you often. Such leatherworking, such goldsmithing, such weaving." One side of his mouth quirks. "You collect titles the way some collect paintings."

There it is, the edge turning mocking. She is...mostly certain he is being more facetious than antagonistic. Were his helm removed, he might arch a brow at her. There is something in his tone that implies the expression.

"Alphinaud is sweet."

"Sweet," he repeats. "The way he calculates and tries to move the world like game pieces and you call him sweet."

"You," she poke his sternum with her gauntleted hand. "Could stand to learn some optimism."

"No," he says. "Teach me something useful instead, like your little trick."

A soft wind moves over them, carrying the scent of the forest–Chocobo, moss, the rambling stream. She coaxes it to her, gripping her lance like she once did her stave. 

It resists her at first, unwilling to channel through titanium rather than supple oak or rosewood. Her brow furrows as elemental wisps bend to her will, shaping a whirling vortex of air at the wickedly sharp lance-tip.

"Aero," she says, "Is one of the first spells I learned. For all the pains the other elements gave me...the air and the wind and I work well together."

Estinien makes a noncommittal sound and gestures for her to do it again. So she does, narrating how it feels to attune with the very nature of the elements. How some of the currents molding to her hands are light, others stinging in rebuke. How her guildmaster sent her to exterminate insects and rid a spring of corrupted air to better understand the element.

"You used this for the killing blow. Why?"

"The Aero spell is a quick burst of pure damage. I could tell he was nearly defeated. I needed to end it before he might take another swing or bite." She grimaces. "No matter that he attacked us first–a beast cornered, with no options, is the deadliest kind."

Estinien jerks his head in a nod. "You make sense. Will I have to enroll in this guild in order to perform this little trick?"

Again, she can only guess if he is joking or not. She chooses to be generous. "If you don't mind a teacher who is no longer a member of good standing...I will see what I can do."

The sun streams through the leaves above them, dappling his drachen mail in light and shadow. He smiles at her, the sight of it making her breath hitch. Just for a moment. “I think you’ll do.”

* * *

Sometimes she convinces Estinien to help her get Aymeric away.

Sometimes she cannot.

If she waits too long, he charges Thordan. He cannot hold back with Aymeric swaying, clutching at wounds but refusing to falter. Sorrow cracks his voice as he pleads for his father to listen.

It breaks her heart every time. Each cycle, she notices a different way he wears his grief, a different way they hurt him in captivity. Every suspicion she had of Estinien's regard for the Lord Commander...he confirms it in as many ways as her heart shatters. 

It is only ever she or Haurchefant who die.

She doesn't know if The Echo will save anyone else. She doesn't risk that it may not.

* * *

They file out of Fortemps Manor in the cold, gray dawn. Alphinaud plans to conspire with Tataru about enlisting aid. His jaw is set, his shoulders square. He does not wear command like he did with the Crystal Braves; when he walked about as if his title and rank were his due, as one so intelligent and well-bred.

He may never act so again. Nerys is glad to see his growth, though she would give anything to spare him the catalyst. Spare all three of them the pain of losing their comrades. But she can only move forward, can only do her best to protect their forged family.

Powerful as she has become, she cannot reach into the past. She cannot shelter her loved ones from horror and death.

She hears Lord Edmont’s distinctive tread before he stands beside her, bearing his full weight upon his cane. Snow dusts over their hair and shoulders. "A word, Mistress Eluned?"

Nerys inclines her head. "My lord."

Both Alphinaud and Haurchefant send her inquisitive looks. She encourages them onward with a wave of her hand. There is time for her to catch up; briefing Tataru will take some time.

They disappear down the stone walkway–her lover and the young man she calls brother. Their conversation is a quiet murmur in the serene hush of early morning. Only last night, they spoke loud and at length about strategy and poetry and the best cards for Triple Triad. You would not mistake the gregarious pair then for the same one walking now.

She is surprised at the emotion forming a solid shape in her throat.

"My second son," says the Count. Eyes watching a silhouette already gone from sight. "I would blame the soft spot he has always held for Ser Aymeric, but that isn't the sole reason he does this."

"No?" Nerys swallows the strange lump of feeling.

"He is ever willing to throw himself into danger to protect the innocent." The rugged planes of Lord Edmont's face soften. "His men are under orders to talk him down from taking unnecessary risks. Would that he were ensconced with them at Camp Dragonhead."

 _It took half a dozen knights to restrain him, I am told._ Aymeric's voice comes to her from a lifetime ago. "Somehow, he would have heard and come anyway. Though perhaps his knights would have kept him in place."

Lord Edmont's laugh is a small, humorless thing. "Would that wishes granted such things. In their stead and mine...will you watch over him, Mistress Eluned?"

“Yes, of course,” she says, before the request has scarce left his lips.

"Thank you." He reaches over to pat her shoulder. "And you take care as well. In a short time...you have been a blessing to our family."

Her cheeks warm. "I have also brought trouble to this House, my lord."

"You have wrought changes for each of my sons, which in turn has brought change and blessings for me." His grip tightens. "You will always have a place in our family."

That lump of emotion forms in her throat _again_ and she cannot speak. Perhaps it’s her heart. It certainly feels like it’s swelled to a level she cannot begin to put into words.

And now there is a slight smirk to his mouth, so reminiscent of Haurchefant and Emmanellain. "I expect Haurchefant to propose marriage within the year but if he does not, your position is still secure."

Her blush grows. They had been circumspect since the night they first made love in the western highlands. Haurchefant swore to move at her pace, though he would have loved to fill Foundation with poems and declarations and songs about their courtship. A knight honored his word, even if it meant less poetry.

Circumspect until last night, when he had slipped into her chambers and slipped out before anyone awoke.

"I-that is-"

“I had my suspicions, but nothing confirmed until this morning.” His eyes dance. “I approve, of course. Not that either of you require it to live and love as you choose.”

“Thank you,” she says, because she cannot think of anything else to say. And then the jovial mood dissipates and they both consider what the day will bring. Lord Edmont pulls away, returning his hand to his cane.

"Bring him home, Mistress Eluned. Please."

"I promise," she says. “I promise.”

* * *

There is an avenue she hasn’t tested.

The first cycle, Haurchefant looked to her. She had nodded. That cue sent him to his death. Terror grips her at the thought of doing it again. It will kill this man. What if repeating that first death ends the loop she is in?

She exhausts every other possibility before she dares it–even trying to reason with Charibert for a few cycles. (It does not work. He calls her a corrupt heretic, a vile woman.)

The pain behind her eyes is a sharp, throbbing mass. Her body is whole again, healed of the death blow and injuries accumulated with the last turn of fate. The Echo...it feels farther away. As if it speaks to her through layers of cotton.

It will only grow more difficult from here. She must attempt this while she still has the strength.

When they meet upon the bridge, Haurchefant touches her arm. Murmurs. “What happened? You look ill.”

“It will be alright.” She says. Panic rises in her, dancing just under her skin, Fills her chest until her lungs and heart might burst from the pressure. Aymeric makes his plea. Haurchefant glances her way. Nerys looks to Thordan, and nods at her lover.

He nods back.

They rush out together, leaving Aymeric in the care of Lucia and Estinien. As Haurchefant pulls ahead, she swings around and leaps as high as she ever has, as fast as she ever has, feeling the winds buoy her up to where the bastard is waiting.

_A dragoon leaps into danger to slay the monsters._

Zephirin has just hefted the spear when their eyes meet. How fortuitous, that his target should present herself for him. Haurchefant cries aloud from below, her name lost on the fierce gale about them. She swings her lance against his attack, meaning to divert its path or knock it back.

Time, ever her ally these long hours, does not aid her now. She misses.

He strikes her down.

Nerys plummets, vision tunneling to the sapphire sky. _Had it not been red before?_

She beseeches whatever god may be listening. Hydaelen, though the Mother Crystal no longer speaks to her and summoned Minfilia to her death. Halone, though Nerys is no true daughter of Ishgard. The Twelve, who have ever been more tradition than faith to her.

 _Please,_ she pleads to all of them and to unforgiving blue above. _Do not let this be the last time._

* * *

It is the first time they have done this in the manor. 

There is no reason to be secretive about it. Only that...though they have loved each other for moons, this change feels new. Knowing the person you love returns your feelings changes the dimensions and dynamics and _everything._

Nerys wants to keep it private, just for a little while. Just while they explore the new ground they have discovered together. And that is easier without curious eyes. So she goes to Camp Dragonhead when she is able, spending nights entangled with him, under his warm blankets and warmer hands.

Tonight is different. She has not seen him in far too long, does not know what will happen on the morrow. When everyone turns in for the night, she catches his eye and gives him a long look. His ice-colored eyes turn sharp and he gives her a nod in return. 

Nerys hurries through her evening ablutions and brushes the travel tangles from her amethyst-and-ivory curls. For sleeping clothes, she peruses the large rosewood wardrobe in the corner of her room. It is well-stocked with all manner of clothes she might borrow. Lord Edmont spares no expense providing for his three wards.

Nerys holds up one of several lacy nightgowns against her chest. She _likes_ lace, all the more because she seldom has a chance to dress for beauty instead of practicality. Only, this particular garment is not quite to her taste. It is voluminous, layers and layers of fabric cascading down from a high neckline that will surely brush up against her ears. The many hems pool on the floor, each trimmed with scarlet ribbon.

It puts her in the mind of a gown for a babe or something a grand dame might wear, to hide all possible glimpses of wrist, ankle, or throat. Though she would wager all her gil that Ysayle could wear it and look as fetching as she did in all things. 

_I hope she is alright_. Bringing her into Foundation seems like a dream, hours later.

The door opens and Nerys turns to it, still clutching the garment to her. In the full-length mirror, she sees the many layers and pleats swing around. Haurchefant is half-shadow in the soft light of candles and aether lamps. So very still once the door is closed, except for the torrent in his eyes. 

Her breath catches. The soft sound pushes him to action, crossing the room in three strides. He grips her arms and crushes her to him, telling her how much he has missed her with the ferocity of his lips. She forgets about the nightgown until he takes it from her and places her hands upon the laces of his trousers.

Haurchefant shows her the longing of these weeks in a thousand ways with few words. It is the quietest he has ever been, his mouth occupied with worship and demonstration. Everything he feels burns through his touch and his lips and the fierce grip anchoring her. Over and over, he turns her into ash.

They fall asleep in a panting heap, clutching each other. She does not stir once until she feels him getting up in the dark hours of the morning. Nerys grabs his arm and he is gentle as he eases away her grip, kissing her knuckles. He turns to the business of finding his clothes.

“Is this a statement?” He pauses where she laid out her drachen armor the night before. Runs his hand over the helm.

“I want them to understand who they cross should they harm the Lord Commander,” replies Nerys. The sheets and blankets are warm against her naked body but she still feels bereft without him. “Scion of the Seventh Dawn and Warrior of Light, but also chosen by The Eye as Azure Dragoon.”

“Ward of House Fortemps, Most Beautiful Lily in Ishgard, Mistress of the Needle and Awl, Scythe and-”

She laughs, putting her hand up. “Estinien teased me for collecting so many titles. But when you say it like that...I am not so embarrassed.”

“Estinien should be so lucky to be as accomplished as my beloved.” He spreads his arms wide. “For I truly believe there is nothing you cannot do.”

* * *

Nerys stands before Charibert. Her abdomen reverberates with so much pain it threatens to bend her in half. She clutches at her lance, willing herself to stay upright. Strong and steady and liable to scream in a moment.

Zephirin pushes open the doors and the winds move with the force of it. The gusts wrap around her, stabilizing her even as they sting her face. She will never call herself a true conjurer but the dragoon’s art is ever one of moving like wind. Perhaps the element senses the kinship they share.

Once the pair leaves, once she sends the adventurers to secure their exit, once the airship flies overhead; Nerys runs to aid her friends and her beloved. The pain recedes though each slap of foot against stone is an unpleasant jolt. Her jaw clenches each time until it too throbs with pain, the muscles and roots of her teeth alike in misery.

She must get the timing right. Too soon and he may strike again. Too early and he will kill her. Do nothing and Haurchefant dies. If there is a way to make sure his attack goes wild...even if she is injured, she will accept that outcome over the rest. 

The wind moves with her, pushing her forward. Her hair would be a tangled mess had she not donned the drachen helm this morning. The memory of Haurchefant’s hand upon it, him proclaiming his utter faith in her...both the image and the weather sting her eyes with tears.

It comes to her then, the pieces drifting together as if they float on the gale into their whole form. A way forward.

“We were not too late,” Haurchefant says to her when his group arrives. His relief fast turns into worry. “My dear, you don’t look well. Are you-”

She shakes her head. “Sore but still breathing.”

His doubt is clear but there is no time to press her. Aymeric must make his impassioned plea. Thordan must rebuff him, clinging to tradition and power though it damns generations to come. To see an old man make such choices is less surprising than that he has pulled young men into it with him. Their youthful faces shine with rapture at Thordan’s words.

She may have pitied the Heaven’s Ward once. Now, she wants their blood.

Haurchefant nods. Nerys nods back. She counts the steps as she coaxes the winds to her, beseeching them to obey her will. Five steps. Six steps. The winds she gathered stay with her as she leaps into the scarlet skies, turning towards the knight in black mail. ( _Was the sky not blue before?)_

Hold.

_Hold._

**_Hold._ **

Nerys shifts the lance in her grasp, holding it like a stave and forcing the wind to coalesce about the sharp point. Zephirin raises his arm, pulls back, throws his impossibly deadly spear of light. She hears Haurchefant cry out her name; dismay and fear strangle the syllables.

Her grip shifts again. The spear sings through the air, white-hot and eager to pierce her armor. She levers her weapon up so the Aero spell bursts on contact with the light-spear, sending it off-course.

Though he is helmeted, she feels Zephirin’s anger at being thus thwarted. There is a moment of triumph, of relief, of letting herself rest.

And then a cry of pain, other cries of fury and shock. Nerys turns her head and he is lying on the ground–her Haurchefant–blood so vivid red she sees it painting the bridge from her vantage point. 

She chokes on a sob. She did this. She was the one this time to kill him, _making_ _him take the blow meant for her._

Nerys closes her eyes and falls. The cycle will start again, but if not until she is dashed upon the bridge or the city below; it is the penance she deserves. The winds rush around her, tugging at her, trying to break her fall as she plummets.

What meets her is not bridge nor city, but the rattle of armor against armor; the vice grip of another person navigating clutching her spiked armor as they soar forwards. Estinien scowls down at her when she opens her eyes.

“Have you lost your senses?” He demands. They have come a long way from the Dravanian Forelands. She has learned how to read him better, not that she needs such knowledge now. His voice near cracks with fury and disbelief.

Perhaps this is how she resets, with the full force of her crime brought against her.

They land and he sets her down upon shaking legs, his arms all that keeps her up. Lucia and Aymeric crouch beside Haurchefant’s body, speaking fast and fervent, their words not quite making sense. At last the sounds take shape, catching at the corners of her recriminations.

“-to a chirurgeon,” Lucia says, cradling Haurchefant. “He may yet live.”

Nerys stares. His shoulder is...there is so much blood, the scent of burnt flesh heavy in the air. He groans as Estinien rushes to his side, again when he is hoisted aloft. The dragoon leaps from them as fast as he can.

She collapses to her knees. Alive. He is alive. He may yet live.

_He is alive._

* * *

Haurchefant is in his chamber with two chirurgeons, the door barred to all else. As soon as she learns this, Nerys turns around and leaves the manor house. Alphinaud tries to stop her but she puts him off, claiming she needs a moment and fresh air. Leaving before he can counter, she finds the place she truly can be alone: the rooftop. 

When...if...he dies of his wounds, will she go back? Is this The Echo’s bargain: let her be the hand that slew him so everyone may have a chance to say goodbye?

Bile rises in her throat. She has to sit down, put her head between her knees, and wait the nausea out. All the pain she ignored roars to life. The places they stabbed her. The intense migraine of The Echo. What was truly a matter of minutes, was hours for her (perhaps days) and the exhaustion of pushing herself for so long exacts its toll.

She does not throw up or pass out. Either would be blessed relief. And perhaps she will never deserve such succor again.

Time loses rhythm and sense, to a point where the concept of minutes cannot find purchase in her mind. She is curled up, hugging her knees, and willing her stomach to settle. Then there is a rush of air, a step on the roof. 

It is Estinien. No one else could fetch her so easily. She looks up and her back protests as if she has been so bent for hours. Maybe she has. 

"Is he…?" She croaks.

"He will live. The chirurgeons patched him up, rid him of any possible infection. As soon as they stepped out of the room, the boy went in to ensure neither sabotaged the healing on secret orders. He trusts no one, and declares Haurchefant safe-Fury’s Teats, what is wrong?"

Oh. She is crying. Tears pour down her face, rolling onto her chest plate without sound. She shakes so much, it causes the spikes of her armor to move with her in a clatter.

Now her breath catches and keeps catching, gasping on air and choking on phlegm. Nerys wails as she has not since she was a child, and certainly never in front of someone like Estinien. Through the veil of tears, he looks panicked.

She won't blame him for giving her space. Close as they have become, who knows what to do when a comrade breaks before you? She might be similarly at a loss.

The now-familiar sensation of his arms fitting about armor not meant for embracing closes about her. His voice is gruff against her ear, dropping words like _easy_ and _calm_ and _relax._

The pressure in her head builds, this pain worse than it has ever been. She feels something spike through him, his whole body jerking and arms trembling against her. One hand touches his brow while the other arm keeps hooked about her.

"Twelve," she cries. "I can't do it again. He's safe now. I can’t do it again-"

"He…" Through the anguish she sees him wince, his mouth parting in wider and wider shock. He groans. "Nerys. You…"

Through the open windows of House Fortemps, she hears voices rise in shock and pain. The world rushes around her as Estinien carries her down to the ground level, barreling through the front doors. Her stomach cramps in agony, she feels her heart rising in her throat. Nausea and panic turn the next minute into a space where she knows she is awake, moving, breathing...and all she will ever remember is white light and shaking.

The pain at last claims her, pulling her into the relief of unconsciousness. If she comes to, standing before Charibert, she may not survive it.

* * *

Nerys wakes with a gasp, reaching for a lance and finding empty air. 

Something falls to the floor with a soft thud. Someone leans over her. 

Alphinaud, dressed in loose white tunic and pants, touches her arm. He looks comfortable which means something is _truly_ wrong. No matter what occurs, Alphinaud Leveilleur will face it in formalwear or not at all.

"Hey," she half-croaks, half-whispers. There is no moisture in her mouth and she chokes on the words, cough and hacks at nothing. The taste on her tongue is better left undescribed. His slender arm slides under her shoulders, and presses her up to rinse out her mouth into a basin with a stinging potion. Next, she must sip at cool water flavored with bitter herbs and some type of sour fruit. She is disoriented enough to obey him without protest.

In the corner of her vision she sees a thick tome sprawled and open on the floor where he must have dropped it.

He pulls the drink away too soon, moving her to lie back. "Let us see if you can keep that down first."

"...Did I…"

"Cast up your accounts? Yes, in the foyer." Alphinaud winces. "I suspect Lord Edmont won't hold the loss of his rug against you, with what you've done."

She raises a sore arm to her dry, warm forehead. "What I...Did they all remember?"

Alphinaud pulls up a chair and begins to dab a cool cloth at her face. Nothing has ever felt so nice. "Estinien went to fetch you...and then all at once Lucia collapsed to her knees, clutching at her brow. Both Haurchefant and Aymeric cried out and we rushed to check them.

"Emmanellain met Estinien at the door, who carried you in as you were…" He touches hand to chin, composing a diplomatic phrase. "Suffering the aftershocks. Estinien seemed in pain as well, though he managed to see to you."

"...The Echo," she says. After more coughs and more water, she continues "I think...it showed Estinien what happened."

"It showed all four what transpired. Estinien and Lucia pieced together the tale for the rest of us." Alphinaud leans back in his chair, looking soft and sad and not a little worried. "...Nerys what you went through…”

"I had to." She pushes herself up, gasping at the feeling it causes. Her stomach and chest throb where she was stabbed. "What time is it?"

He nods to the heavy crimson curtains at the window. "I have lost track with the sun so blocked but about midday, the day after it all."

Nerys sits up and swings aching legs and feet over the edge of the bed. Someone put her into one of the frothy nightgowns, lace and lace and lace atop velveteen with red ribbons at the hem and neckline. It itches at her wrists and she pushes the sleeves up her forearms.

"Wait," he holds up a hand. "You shouldn't-"

"I need to...I am going to see him." Nerys grips one of the posts holding up the aubergine canopy above the bed, pushing herself onto her feet. "Help me or step aside."

He mutters something that sounds like "stubborn" but produces a pair of fleece and velveteen slippers to cushion her heels. What a sight she must make, wan and drained and limping in a confection with enough lace to pay for five nights at the Forgotten Knight. 

Alphinaud offers his arm like the true gentleman he is. Nerys takes it, but does not adhere to the gentle pace he sets. The manor home is quiet, most of the curtains drawn. What sunlight does shine into the opulent interior is diminished by clouds and a light fall of snow. Soft footsteps whisper through the corridor, indicating a servant taking pains to be unobtrusive.

Haurchefant’s door comes into view, the mahogany slab with subtle unicorn carvings inlaid into its four panels. Alphinaud huffs with relief beside her, likely glad to be done pulling her back into a slow walk while she charges forward. She goes from his arm to the brass door handle, hearing a murmur of voices beyond.

They will surely forgive her for not knocking. 

Inside, the scent of herbal broth and peppermint tea is strong; overlaid atop the distinct smell of medical salves and disinfectant, the clean spring scent of conjury. The Lords Artoirel and Emmanellain are there–the elder drinking tea in a high-backed chair, the younger perched on the edge of the bed, holding a bowl of broth and raising a spoon towards the headboard. Both stand when she bursts in.

Propped upon a mountain of pillows, his arm and shoulder thickly bandaged, ashen and exhausted but alive and there and alive–she is out of tears but her dry eyes burn and her hands tremble.

Haurchefant softens all at once. His voice breaks. “Oh...oh my beloved. What you have done…”

Nerys rushes to him, narrowly missing Emmanellain and the sloshing broth. She clasps the uninjured hand Haurchefant raises, pressing her mouth to the palm, to the back of the hand. Presses it to her cheek and glories in the feel of his thumb over her skin. He is not too drained of water to cry–she sees the glimmer in his eyes.

It is not enough. She bends to him, tilting his chin to kiss him as if her continuing existence required it. Her hands curl in his silken hair, needing him as the land has ever needed the sun and the wind. Two voices gasp, a teacup clatters against a saucer, someone laughs aloud in delight.

His cheeks are wet against hers.

When at last they part she is half splayed the bed, half kneeling on the carpet. Haurchefant cups her wrists, disentangling her hands so he can kiss one and then the other. “Beloved,” he repeats. “Oh my dear, oh my heart…”

There is a burst of whispers and a flurry of movement. She sees Artoirel usher out the other two. His brother protests and poor Alphi, looking stunned that he did not know about this. She will have to apologize to him later.

“Well, that is heartening: Emmanellain gives us his blessing,” Haurchefant murmurs. “Come, lay beside me.”

Careful, so careful, she lays down on her side atop the covers, next to his good shoulder. She presses her lips to his bare arm, relishing the gentle heat of him. “Your sword arm...I am truly sorry. I was seeking a way to help but I would rather you not hurt at all-”

“You are not allowed to apologize for any of it,” he says with a shake of his head. “In fact, you are not allowed to do anything but rest with me and let me adore you.”

She laughs, a dry creaky sound. “And aren’t you on bedrest? Should I be here?”

“If they take you from me, I will simply follow.” He shifts, wincing at the movement. Her hands flutter to help him, anchoring him in the tumble of pillows and blankets. Once he is facing her more he settles, eyes still soft. “...You look lovely.”

“If I do, it's all these trimmings and not my own exhausted self.” She rests her head on her arm. “...I’m terrified this is a dream and I will go back.”

“Dearest heart,” he breathes, lacing their fingers together. His uninjured arm and the one that rests atop her side. “Feel this. Feel my grip on yours.” He brings their hands to his chest, pressing her palm against his heart. “Feel this beat, telling you I am here.”

“Don’t let go,” she pleads, voice small. “Even if it takes me hours to believe. Please don’t let go.”

“Never,” he vows. “Never again.”

She counts the strong pulse against her palm, each one another reassurance in the many she will need to feel at ease. After some time, he frees his hand to rub her temple. The lingering ache soothes under the soft circles and warm fingers.

“What did the chirurgeons say?” She asks him, eyes half-lidded in pleasure. 

“I will not be able to go with you to stop Thordan. My recovery shall take far longer than I like.” He rubs his thumb over her cheek. “Alphinaud mentioned an associate who may help. And in your absence, I shall do all I can to support Aymeric and reveal the truth of our ancestors.”

“Haurchefant…” She moves even closer, still so careful and worried about jostling him. “You do not have to be useful as you recover. All I want...all I could ever want is for you to be well.”

“Yes well…” He moves too before she can stop him, close enough to press their foreheads together. “You shall have it. What is more...if you ever thought to escape being beloved by this family, you have sealed your fate.”

Nerys lets out a breath. “I would not want to evade such a thing. I don’t think I say it enough, but I love you. I love you so much.”

“Dearest one, you said it every time you raised your lance in defense of me. And for that I will also implore you to rest. Just for a little while, with me today.”

“Of course.” Having lost a day and a half to unconsciousness, she is surprised to feel so tired. As if even in sleep, adrenaline has carried her to this point. Only now does she feel safe, does she feel like she can let go because her mission is well and truly complete. Haurchefant is safe and he will not be taken from her.

“And I love you too,” he whispers. There is so much feeling in her just then and she can see it mirrored in him. Love and gratitude and relief and emotions no words could ever describe. So she puts her hand back onto his chest and resumes counting his heartbeats.

When she lost him that first time, all he asked for was a smile. And she had given it because she could deny him nothing, though her heart shattered through it. Now she smiles in a way she hopes communicates the complicated knot of emotions, the immense size of the love beating in her own heart.

He smiles back, warm and dear and _here._


End file.
